


The Lodger

by whilewilde



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Living Together, M/M, a kind of Sherlock AU I guess? except not, cabaret, disgracing themselves, one of them is a massive POS and the other wants to be a writer, post corona, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilewilde/pseuds/whilewilde
Summary: Failing writer and aspiring gentleman, Eddie Kaspbrak, is desperate to escape the town of Derry and live like Clark Gable (minus the serial affairs and heterosexuality). Finding himself in LA with little money and no friends, he takes up a room with the mysterious former lecturer, Richie Tozier. Richie finds himself faking his death to escape his overbearing neighbour, Mike Hanlon, and soon faking a marriage with Eddie to keep his old friend, Beverly Marsh, from harassing him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie Kaspbrak was fed up.

There was only so much you could do in a town like Derry, even post lockdown where the city seemed to permanently reside in bars. He had grown tired of the family units, the street parties, the barbecues in the park which usually was just an excuse to trash the place. Most of all, he was tired of going nowhere at all.

‘Writer’ in this world, he was quick to remind anyone he met, was simply just codeword for unemployed and passing the time. Most of the money he lived on as of late was from his dead father, who had a few successes with books about different kind of Geese and the omens surrounding them. Surprisingly, there happened to be a lot of Geese enthusiasts in the good ol’ USA.Eddie never complained though, it paid his bills.

Paying bills was hardly a solution to living though, he would often think, always 5 seconds away from calling it a day and blowing his brains out. His hand would never bother to reach for his gun though. Eddie hated mess.

These were the circumstances as to which Eddie found himself in a quiet part of LA, the kind that they don’t tell you about on TV in case it causes billionaires and reality stars to reconsider. The air was often humid and overbearing, but unlike Derry, nobody knew his business, so he put up with the weather.

On the flight over, the overbearing middle aged English Mother of one annoying crying child struck up conversation with him. She was the kind of pretty that you'd find on 50s TV, beehive hairstyle and all, although she was hardly in her 40s, her manicured hands shaking as she attempted to keep her child under control. Eddie would rather she found a way to keep the child quiet, but he had been raised to always be polite. Besides, it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

“So where do you think you’ll live, dear?” Her voice was gentle, reminding Eddie of those tacky English soaps about family and murder. Sometimes a murderer in the family and murder that happens to a different family.

Soaps made it seem like a lot of murder happened in England at all times, Eddie thought as he turned his body in his seat towards the woman.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d just show up and arrive somewhere. Like they do in the books.” Eddie answered wistfully, smiling as he thought about the life that lay ahead of him.

“And that’s how you young men get murdered. Have some sense, young man!” Her voice was shrill and fraught with concern.

English people and their murder. They had been living on a diet of Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper for too long, Eddie thought.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a writer! Whatever happens... the ups and the downs will just be a story in twenty years time.” He responded breezily.

“Well you bloody well look out for yourself.”

The child began to exercise it’s lungs again, screaming louder and louder between each pause, as if it knew how badly it was annoying everyone on the flight. Eddie smiled the woman sympathetically as she tried to hush the baby, to no avail.

“What’s your name?” Eddie asked, wincing as the child began to kick him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry- Buster, stop that. My name is Linda, love.” She got control of the child long enough to shake Eddie’s now outstretched hand.

“Buster? Like Buster Keaton?”

“Don’t be silly, dear. That’s no name for a child.” She replied dismissively.

Well, not to Buster Keaton, obviously. Eddie muttered under his breath, turning away to face the back of the seat in front of him once again. Closing his eyes, his mind wandered to what could be waiting for him in sunny LA. It wasn’t his original destination. That had been London, until a friend that was now long forgotten told him that it was far too expensive, even for man living off Geese book royalties. So, his hopes of being the dashing gentleman in London, writing on his typewriter were long dead.

Eddie had always wanted to be the handsome Clark Gable type - but without the serial cheating and heterosexuality- but soon found out he was more like Cary Grant or the lion from the Wizard of Oz. He at least wanted to be the tin man.

So, he sought out ‘gentlemanly things.’ Cigarettes on a front porch near midnight, dressing in suits, forcing his hair down with enough product to build a wall and only attending dimly lit bars. Whiskey on the rocks was the standard order, even though Eddie couldn’t stomach whiskey.

The screaming child finally settled down, now gently gurgling happy. Eddie smiles, shut his eyes, and waited to reach the city of opportunity.


	2. Dead Wrong

There lived few more depressing characters in LA than that of Richie Tozier. Richie- ‘Rich’ to his friends, of which he had a sum total of 0- didn’t even leave on the nice side of town. If there even was one. The issue had been a hot topic amongst its residents, particularly those who lived in the shoddy downtown area known as ‘Birch Street.’

The ageing lecturer had thought it sounded practically suburban when he learned about it, but names can be deceiving. 10 years ago, a fresh faced Richie stood, with his only suitcase, in front of a crumbling apartment block. Trash littered the sidewalk and crude graffiti made it hard to notice the paint underneath, which had been peeking for years.

Inside was hardly better. The corridor leading to apartment one smelt of piss. So did the second floor, and the third. Richie’s room was a small number- a tv in the far corner of a small room, a raised platform dividing it in half. Towards the far end of the room, there was an old retro fridge on its last legs, a disgusting mint colour, a grotty oven and stove top, and a microwave, with its wires cut.

Next to the fridge, there was a passageway leading to a box room with a stained single mattress on the floor. It had seen better days, but then so had Richie. To get the bathroom, about half the size of the bedroom, he had to climb over the mattress to reach it. He found himself thankful that he had a shower here.

And so, in the next 10 years, Richie appeared to have aged at least 20. He was 37 at present, a slouching, emotionally empty husk of a man. His brown hair was dangerously close to reaching The Beatles in the 1970s territory, curling at the ends, his fringe sticking to his forehead.

Appearance wise, he hardly resembles a lecturer, because he wasn’t. Occasionally, he would take on a few lessons of an old school friends strictly for cash in hand, but he just couldn’t be bothered to go to school to get a degree. Nowadays he was retired, and as far as his neighbours were aware, he was dead.

It wasn’t that Mike Hanlon was a bad person- far from it- he was just too overbearing. Mike was always just too nice, the kind of nice that social workers are to kids before they take them away and banish them to an orphanage. If Richie wasn’t honest, he knew Mike was a good man, he saw it in his eyes. Richie just found the attention a bit too much.

Of course, as soon as Mike had discovered that Richie was (supposedly) dead, he volunteered to find a new lodger immediately. Richie couldn’t help but smile at that. Money usually exposes people’s priorities.

Over the past 5 weeks, there had been various potential lodgers, but to Mike’s surprise, each left promptly, looking scared to death. Each time, without fail, Mike had investigated to find nothing as Richie hid in his closet, a white sheet covering his entire body, with small eyeholes cut out.

Coincidentally, the only time that Mike had commissioned a full inspection, Richie was on a 5 day bender in Berlin, and so returned unaware. It would be 3 weeks until the next visitor.

Richie yawned as he faced the bathroom mirror, prodding at his face and grimacing. A purple bruise, the size of a small melon on the side of his face stood out like a sore thumb, and Richie hissed in pain as he ran his finger over it. 

Blood spotted the neckline of his white t shirt, and he had to double check that some didn’t reach his boxers. Some things aren’t ruining a pretty face for, he thought, retreating to the kitchen. The sound of voices outside his door caused him to prick up his ears, and dive - a gangle of limbs-into his bedroom. As he heard someone enter, he pulled his makeshift ghost get up over his face and tried to calm his breathing.

The continuous thump-thump of his heart practically deafened him as he attempted to slow his breathing. His chest had reached a rhythmic, steady pattern of rising and falling as he tracked the footsteps from the other room. They were currently near the TV.

Deciding that it was now or never, Richie walked out, waiting for the stranger to turn around. Richie had just enough time to notice the fine suit and the fresh haircut before he turned around.

The stranger noted Richie, nodded, Harley raising an eyebrow and pulled out a cigarette. Just as he had the cigarette in his mouth, Richie interrupted him.

“You’re uh... you can’t smoke in here.” Richie reminded him, gently.

Disbelief flashed across the face of the stranger as he transferred the cigarette to behind his ear. Shrugging his shoulders, both men became painfully aware of the silence in the room.

“I’m sorry.” the stranger replied smoothly. Derry accent, Richie mentally noticed.

“You’re not, like, freaked out sumn? Cause dude your reaction is freaking me out!” Richie exclaimed waving his hands under the sheet.

All the stranger could see was what looked like a man in a ghost costume, jacking off. 

“I- do you, uh, get off on that ‘cause I don’t think I’m comfortable wi-“ the stranger was interrupted by an impatient Richie.

“You’re here for the room?!”

“I don’t really know why else I would be here. You have nothing worth stealing.” The stranger replied nonchalantly, smiling.

“Fine, let’s talk business.”

”My name is Eddie Kaspbrak, since you didn’t ask.”

Richie hardly paid him any mind as he stormed off into his bedroom, removing the ghost costume in a huff.


	3. Café

Eddie didn’t really know what to expect of Richie, and he assumed (correctly, mind) that the feeling was mutual. The meeting was more a session of stoney silence as the two men eyed each other suspiciously, neither wanting to break the context first. First rule of establishing dominance: maintain the eye contact at all costs. That’s what Marlon Brando would’ve done, Eddie reasons. Of course, Brando wasn’t alive to confirm or deny, but it suited him nonetheless.

It was peculiar though, how whenever Eddie attempted to speak, Richie would lean across and place a finger to his lips, staring off into the distance. Eddie’s only line of defence was to wriggle further into his seat and bat Richie’s hand with a disapproving grunt.

If his mom were here, she would probably be having the heart attack that killed her upon seeing what her son was reduced to.Her golden boy was meant to be like Somerset Maugham. In some respects, he definitely was, just not in the literary aspects as of yet. Sorry mom, he thought for the sixth time as he remained steadfast in the flat.

“What do you want to do?” Richie spike, catching Eddie off guard.

“Wh-what? What do you mean?”

“I mean what the fuck is someone like you doing in a shithole like this?” The question wasn’t exactly unfair, and was it neither cruel or invasive in its manner.

“I want to be a writer. I just thought a place like this would kickstart my brain a bit.” A sheepish smile found its way to Eddie’s lips as he suddenly found the idle TV of some interest.

“You know what you’re gonna write about?”

“I haven’t found anything- or anyone- interesting enough to write about yet.”

“You could write about me.” Richie proposed, not at all disturbed by how perplexed Eddie was by his suggestion.

It would take Eddie months to grow used to how bold Richie was. There was nothing he couldn’t say, and if you dared to suggest that he should keep his voice down, he would raise it and say it ten times over. For now, though, they have been in each other’s company for no more than an hour.

Besides, meeting a man dressed as a ghost was bound to create some kind of anxiety in Eddie’s mind.

“I hardly know you.” Eddie shot back truthfully, running a hand through his slicked back hair.

“Y-y-you hardly know ME?” Richie spluttered, going practically red in the face from a combination of anger and surprise. Such a reaction from a correct sentence made towards a perfect stranger probably would’ve made Eddie run the other way in other circumstances, but he had long since accepted that Richie was far from norma

All things considered, Eddie thought he had been perfectly considerate. He had managed to look past how small the flat was, how the microwave had recently been the victim of a one sided argument, and how the man living in said flat appeared to be the kind of bachelor who didn’t have friends on account of his attitude. Besides, he hadn’t even mentioned the suspiciously well worn copy of Atlas Shrugged, even though in Eddie’s book, that was enough to send alarm bells ringing.

Richie’s outburst had caused an uncomfortable silence to descend on the room, his words hanging in the air, a venomous reminder of the fact that two complete strangers could not be more ill fitted for one another’s company. Not that such a thing would ever stop Eddie from persevering though. He had decided that the flat was perfect for him the minute he stepped into it and felt at home, and like his mother said, what Eddie wanted, he went out of his way to get. It wasn’t that he was spoilt, or was willing to tread on anyone to get any shred of power, it was just that he knew what side his bread was buttered on.

“So… this is how you treat strangers?” Eddie replied cooly, fixing his tie and mentally making a note to high five himself later for being so sharp.

“It’s my house, man, so actually, yeah, I think I do.” Richie replied, his eyebrows raised as if he couldn’t quite believe the nerve of Eddie

It was as if he had been training for this moment all his life. All the watching of the black and white classics, lusting over Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis simultaneously and collecting of old flick lighters that were nearly witness to self-immolation. Eddie reached for the Lucky Stripes packet within his breast pocket of his blazer, placing a cigarette in his mouth, but not lighting it, in what Richie regarded as some kind of sick power move and a complete disregard for the rules of the flat.

“I think this feels kinda like home, actually.” Eddie finally stated, dragging out his words just to annoy Richie a bit more.

Later, he would learn that it was at that moment that Richie was 0.5 seconds from leaping across the tiny space between them and punching him in the face so hard that he would find himself amongst the old Hollywood greats, alright. For now, Eddie has no idea that Richie hates him this much, but he can’t not laugh at how fuming he was. Richie scrunched his fists so tight that they began to tremble, but his face remained the picture of perfect apathy, his lips eventually twisting into a smile.

“Yeah, well, I think I’ve heard enough-“ Richie announced, slapping his knees as he stood up, gesturing for Eddie to follow him “I’ll call you if I decide that you’re the right fit.”

Eddie, perhaps seeing right through his painfully wide smile, or alerted to the words ‘right fit’ was suddenly struck with the possibility that he might not have it in the bag after all. In a single second, he saw images of himself shacked up in some run down motel, donning a white vest, smoking two cigarettes at once and halfway through a bottle of vodka at 10am, with no writing to speak of. Before Eddie even had the chance to question how Richie would contact him, since they had not exchanged details. He was out the door

“Not like anyone else is going to come along, are they?” Eddie shouted, sighing as he thundered down the stairs and out the door of the building.

As he turned around to look at the window of the room that he had just left, a tired Richie was peeking out of the curtains at him, waving Eddie’s flick lighter at him and grimacing in mock victory. Eddie cursed silently, knowing that he would probably never get that back. Not like it was worth it, anyway. It was a Zippo, with an anti-Vietnam War passage on the back, but it was hardly worth anything. Accepting defeat, he headed to a local cafe a few doors down, it’s sign half destroyed and the flaking paint not dissimilar to the front of the apartment building he had been in not 5 minutes ago.

He headed in, head down, noticing that he stuck out like a sore thumb in his suit. It was the kind of place that people came to when they were hungover and didn’t have much money, and whilst he was undoubtedly the second, he at least tried to pretend not to be. Eddie slotted into a booth made up of bright red seats and a fake marble table, adorned with condiments and poor quality laminated menus. The whole place had a kind of homely feel, despite the grime that collected on the white flooring, and the counter that was only one booth away from where he sat.

Mentally noting the name of the place - ’Stubbs’ - a small smile found it's way to Eddie’s lips as he considered how insane the last hour had been, and how much his mom would’ve berated him if she were still alive to see him get into these scrapes. More importantly, though, she would have loved Stubbs, reminiscent of the cafe in town that they would go to every Saturday morning (so much so that they became regulars) and they’d just share their secrets, their fears and do a spot of people watching. Eddie missed her, he realised. So much can be said better in the safety of the local greasy spoon than in the comforts of ones own home.

“Are you alright?” A kind voice interrupted Eddie’s pity party, and he sat up straight, clearing his throat of any emotion. Eddie smiled a he made eye contact with her. She couldn’t have been more than 25, curled auburn hair just reaching her shoulders, and green eyes that could not have betrayed her fake enthusiasm.

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.” He replied, chuckling at how stupid he was.

“Listen, I’m only the waitress here, but y’know, if you’re sad or whatever, you can go ahead and be sad and cry. No one really notices in places like this, and my mom always said to just let yourself feel sad- don’t deny it- ‘cause otherwise you’ll find yourself a lot worse off than before.” The waitress advised, nervously fiddling with the pen and notepad in her hands.

“I think your mom was right.” Eddie sniffed as he remembered the last conversation he and his mom managed to have, before… well, before everything really. Eddie had lived his life every second after as if anything he did could be the last time. Every coffee and a catch up could be the last time he saw someone, every time he was on the subway and a stranger smiled at him, or every time he went to the local cafe with his mom. Every Christmas and every birthday eventually becomes the last.

It didn't stop after that, though, because you forget that there are people who will notice someone else's absence, even though they weren't particularly close. For Eddie, losing his mom was like watching a Buster Keaton film and there just being no Buster, but for others it was like a Buster film without any music. In other terms, it just wasn't the same at all. The owners of the cafe at home had whispered amongst themselves about why the young man and his mother hadn't shown up for a while, almost as if they missed him. The next time that Eddie would venture in there, he had to muster all the courage he physically could just to open the door. At first, they gently enquired. Perhaps, they hoped, that it had been a small falling out, or that his parents had moved. Eventually they stopped asking. 

Everyone stopped asking, but Eddie didn't hate them for doing it. What else were they supposed to? he didn't even get angry when people his mother hadn't spoken to in years had come up and cried on his shoulder, because he had accepted that whatever grudges his mom had held had died along with her. At the funeral, he had remained stone faced, a Buster Keaton in his own film, but there isn't any music at all, and there's certainly no stunts. People began to remark on how he seemed practically scarred, and wondered if he would ever be happy again. Eddie had grown tired of the questions and the wondering, so he boarded the plane to LA.

As he hurried through security, he could not even find it in his heart to look back.


	4. Not Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one since I haven’t written in a while. Trying to get back into the swing of things!

Richie huffed, his cheeks growing red from frustration as he tried to regain a shred of patience.

“No, no, no! Frankenstein is not a metaphor for homosexuality!” Richie exclaimed, gripping the book with brute force.

As soon as he stepped into the home of 16 year old Stanley Uris, he remembered why he hated teaching. For $120 he had to sit down at a table that cost more than his apartment and pretend to care about what a teenager thought. What happened to the good old days, Richie thought, where you could send them off to fight the king or die in a workhouse? Things just weren’t the same anymore.

“Why not?” Stanley asked, shooting Richie a mischievous glance.

“Because... because! Because not everything is gay!” Richie slammed the book down on the table “most things aren’t.”

“So, Dracula-“

“That’s different.” 

“Rebecca? Sherlock Holmes?” Which each suggestion Stan’s smile grew wider. He knew how to get under his tutors skin.

“Alright, fine,” Richie replies, defeated “but Sherlock Holmes isn’t.”

“Yeah and you’re not an alcoholic...” Stanley muttered under his breath, just loud enough for his companion to hear.

“Right, and that somehow ended with you putting a child in a chokehold?” Eddie asked, raising his eyebrows.

The two had agreed to meet in the cafe that same afternoon, or rather Richie had practically begged for company. It wasn’t because he was lonely though, more so because he was scared of what Stanley’s very rich parents could do. One thing was for sure, that was his last $120 from that family. 

So, Richie had called on the only person who didn’t think he was dead and seemed not to totally hate him. The two seemed relaxed in the run down cafe, the familiar waitress giving a knowing smile to Eddie when they walked in. If Richie hadn’t just been fed the biggest slice of humble pie in the form of a lecture from his former lodger, he probably would’ve had a go at the waitress too. Right at that moment though, it seemed homely, despite the grime and the muck and the broken tiles.

“Listen Ed’s, can I call you Ed’s?”

“Absolutely not.” Richie interrupted, shivering. 

“Well Ed’s, we’re just two very different people. You have how you’d handle people and I have how I do.” Richie absent minded-ly fiddled with the laminated menu, averting his eyes from Eddie’s. 

“Pal, you committed some kinda of crime back there. I mean c’mon this is insane! Do you not have people to tell you this stuff?” Eddie waved his hands wildly, exasperated with how nonchalant Richie appeared.

“No, I don’t have any friends. I had my neighbour but he got too overbearing so I faked my own death.” Eddie groaned and placed his head in his hands.

Beyond help came to mind.

“Listen- I mean really fucking listen to me. I’m still taking this room but not because I’m gonna swan in and ‘save you’ and be your friend or whatever. I’m taking that fucking room because I need somewhere to lay my head at night.” Eddie kept his heads firmly in his hands as he explained, unable to see the grin that formed on Richie’s lips as he said it.

“To not being friends. Perfect.” 


	5. Paintwork

The first few days had been normal. Tolerable, even, if you could get past Richie’s entire personality. Eddie knew it was going to be a challenge, but not a ‘Marilyn Monroe sing happy birthday to JFK but not give away the affair” level of challenge. It wasn’t that he was particularly loud either, because he wasn’t. He did absolutely nothing.

Every night, Richie would wait until his new flatmate had gone to bed before clambering over him to use the bathroom. On the third night, Eddie had simply asked why he didn’t go before, but gave up when Richie started to throw a hissy fit. The only thing worse than possibly being stepped on is a man pissing into bottles out of spite.

Occasionally - and by week 3 Eddie was sure it was every second Wednesday- Richie would blast wham! records every day without fail. Whenever Eddie had become sick of hearing George Michael’s vocals, he dared to ask if the music could be turned off for an hour. The look that Richie gave him told him he probably should drop it.

It wasn’t just the noise though, mostly it was the silence. For the first 3 weeks, Richie barely said a word to his flatmate. They were polite enough to one another, but nothing more was spoken other than ‘good morning’ and ‘good night.’ Most of the time he had an eye mask on and earplugs in, cutting himself off from the world entirely.

It was the fourth week when Richie had finally spoken more than 5 syllables to his lodger. Eddie had been up at 8am preparing for an interview, standing in the living room, exactly between the sleeping Richie and the couch. A low groaning had alerted Eddie that he had managed to piss off his flatmate in under record time.

“Morning, Eds. Can I call you Eds?” Richie asked, not removing his eye mask, and rolling onto his back, one hand resting on his stomach over the duvet.

“If you have to.” Eddie replied sourly, fiddling with his tie.

“Well Eds, I think we should hang out. I won’t take no for an answer!” Richie shouted, sitting bolt upright, still not removing the mask.

Eddie’s jaw practically dropped at the brashness of his companion. Where he was from, you don’t simply ignore someone for nearly a month and then reappear, sort of like some sick display of real life ghosting.

“I actually have an interview in-“ Eddie looked at his watch “2 hours, so I can’t, sorry.”

“Don’t be a dick, I’ll come with you.” Richie pleaded, flinging his mask off and throwing it so it landed on the kitchen countertop. Eddie winced thinking about how much bacteria must be sitting on that thing.

“Why do I get the feeling that I have no choice in this whatsoever?” Eddie turned his back as Richie lept to his feet and began to undress, not bothered by the presence of another person.

“Because you don’t. You can drive me around town for a bit and we can do some Male bonding, ya know?” A crash came from directly behind Eddie, but he still didn’t turn around.

“What is it with men and Male bonding? Normal people just call that having friends.” Eddie wondered aloud, his hands finding his jacket pocket.

When he had awoken this morning early, he had thought that it was going to be a good day. It was his Mom’s philosophy that if you woke up early enough, every day would be a good one, because you had more hours in the day to correct whatever went wrong. As he had awoken and thrown on his old pinstripe suit, and gelled down his hair, Eddie was sure that she had been right. As soon as he faced a half naked Richie, he wasn’t so sure.

“Says the guy who had turn around. Anyway, I’m done.” Richie shot back, tapping Eddie on the shoulder, causing him to spin around.

It was a strange thing, to see Richie actually dressed normally for the first time in his life. When his hair was actually brushed, he looked presentable - handsome even- and you could get a proper look at his face. A velvet purple suit, paired with a white shirt hugged his body so that he looked like he had actually visited a tailor once upon a time. If Eddie had a thing for emotionally unstable bastards, he would’ve been won over right there and then.

“Yeah, good. You look normal.” Eddie stated, nodding his head between each pause.

“Normal? I look fuckin’ great. Come on, let’s go.” Richie hurried Eddie out of the flat and down the stairs, not even bothering to lock the door as they left.

“You know you don’t have to literally shove me out of the door. The train isn’t for another 20 minutes.” Eddie said sarcastically as they headed out the door and onto the street.

LA was unusually quiet in the mornings, normally the hour when everyone would be heading off to work for something or other. This city was entirely different though. It was like people didn’t really start physically existing until at least 9am. This morning it was totally deserted, as rain began to patter against the sidewalk.

“We’re not getting the train. I never get on that shit. You’re driving me.” Richie explained, grabbing Richie by the shoulder and pulling him in the direction of a 1958 corvette.

Any anger that was boiling up inside Eddie had instantly fizzled out the second he saw that car. It was like there was a God after all, and he had only listened to Eddie’s very specific wish to live like someone from the 50s, minus the terrible social attitudes. There was not a scrape to be seen on the corvette, it’s paintwork as perfect as the day it was made. Eddie had to physically restrain himself from stroking it.

“I said drive it, not fuck it.” Richie threw the keys at Eddie, clambering into the passenger seat.

“Be careful I don’t run you into the river, asshole.” Eddie mumbled, getting into the car and driving off in the general direction of the university.

The ride itself was certainly interesting to say the least. At first Eddie couldn’t get out of the mindset of everything being fragile, and nearly had a heart attack whenever it made a noise or he stopped too violently. Richie thought he would have an aneurism if he tried to use the radio, seeing as the thing had a mind of its own.

By the time he had got into the swing of things, they were cruising along nicely, with Richie occasionally calling someone a ‘fucking asshole’ or screaming at Eddie to drive faster. The in between moments (when he had calmed down) they were able to talk as if they were old friends.

“So what’s the interview for?”

“A university lecturer. Really the only thing other than working fast food you can do here apparently.” Eddie explained, as if Richie had simply been living in LA for all these years without ever taking notice of the environment.

“University lecturer is good. What I used to do, yknow? But then you get tired of the shit heads and you find yourself breaking a few rules, turning up drunk...” Richie trailed off and an uncomfortable silence filled the car.

“You know, you’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that. Do a right here and drop me off, I have a few errands to run.” Richie commanded, gesturing to a parking lot located next to a fancy Italian restaurant.

“What about the car?!” Eddie asked, suddenly aware of the fact that he had been put in charge of a thing of beauty.

“Eh, just don’t destroy it and pick me up at 7pm.”

With that, Richie clambered out of the car, looked around, and headed off down the street, leaving Eddie to reconsider his life choices.


End file.
